


Splash of Colour

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divination, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Severus Snape Lives, Spell Failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: A little bit of fate, a little messed up magic, and Hermione Granger is stuck with a curse pointing her somewhere she never thought to look, bright as a neon sign.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 137
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, friends :)
> 
> So it's been a rough few weeks in Kyo real life and I've written nothing... Luckily I had this little short story sitting for a rainy day. The next chapter is off to beta so I'll post again in a few days.
> 
> As always, eternal thanks to In Dreams, Canadian darling, who reminds me I'm not completely hopeless; Mcal, Southern sweetheart, who backs up that notion with unchecked enthusiasm; and LightofEvolution, my European connection, who spends such care making sure all the tee's have crosses and the eyes have dots. Without these ladies, I'm not sure this story would have made it to proverbial print.

Today, the world is yellow.

Hermione wakes rather quickly, her bleary eyes taking in the not-so-subtle hue of everything around her.

It's a Thursday, and the sunny color marks the third day Hermione has woken with this irritating curse. She blames Ron completely, of course. Hermione had been attempting to assist him with one of his Divination assignments. (Why he still takes the class is beyond her.)

She told him not to flick when he should swish, warned him _repeatedly_. But did he listen? He never has, pre-war, or post, whether dating or friends, so why start now? She'd known as soon as he'd cast something was wrong.

The first day after her prior lover accidently hexed her, she had woken to her vision bathed in blood. At first she was terrified, running to the hospital wing, tearing into the room, and begging for Pomfrey to help her. "There's something wrong with my eyes," she had entreated through barely held-back tears. The woman's face was pink, her smock scarlet, the walls a pale blush, floor garnet…

The world had been reduced to a monochromatic study in reds, eerie and frightening, and she'd recounted the magical accident promptly.

"Your eyes are perfectly fine," the woman had gruffed at her, finishing her diagnostic spell with a flourish. "It's your mind that's been altered. Magically, of course. I've told that woman to stop with her idiotic class exercises…"

With Hermione watching, she had mumbled to herself, pulling out various vials and tomes from her stores. Once she had gathered all she needed, she had thrust a liquid in Hermione's hand and read a spell from the largest tome.

"There. It will take a few days, but that should put an end to this nonsense."

Hermione had blinked back. "What happened to me?"

Throwing up her hands, the healer had stalked off to put everything away once more. "Trelawney and her ridiculous exercises. You'll see in colors for a few days. Probably matched by your mood each morning. Today, I imagine, you're seeing red because deep down you knew that blunder would have ill effects." And she had lived with it, finishing her day with as much normalcy as possible.

Day two was orange. A world of tangerine to rust, orange is the color of opportunity, enthusiasm, and determination. If her body had known instinctually to be angry, perhaps this ancient color of hope was a sign of the curse coming to an end.

And so, the night before, she'd gone to sleep feeling positive and is now staring at the visual proof of sunny optimism. She is feeling anything but enthusiastic, but the color never changes through the day, regardless of how her heart and mind might evolve through human emotion.

Now, she is cursed for twenty four hours to live in a spectrum of lemon and gold. It's really bloody annoying.

She swings her legs over the side of her bed and settles her feet on the rug covered floor. It is a true pleasure in her eighth year to have her own private room. As legal adults and a population outside the planned-for amount of students, those in Hermione's class were invited back to live in some of the unused faculty suites. She is using the time to prepare for life on her own, decorating in a way she might when she moves into her own space at the end of the year.

Her mother had told her repeatedly she is welcome to move home for a time, but going to the house that sat empty while her parents were in Australia, living in a space that was only where she spent her summers during the past few years… Well, they say you can never go home again, and Hermione isn't even sure she has had one for some time. It's a sad realization for the Granger family that they have a lot of healing to do; trust to rebuild.

So, in answer to her protests, Jean Granger had finally relented and done what she does best: Throw money at a problem that can't be solved. Her room is quite luxurious for its meager size. The rug beneath Hermione's feet in particular is a handcrafted piece of art from Turkey that once inhabited the Grangers' dining room. It sat in storage during the time Jean and Frank lived abroad and Hermione chased horcruxes across Britain.

Once her parents had been retrieved, their memories she had stolen restored by the team at St. Mungo's, her father had started a campaign to revitalize their lives, merging who they had known themselves to be in both of the lives they had lived. The Grangers had travelled often, Hermione both seeing the world as a child, but also being left on her own when they wanted a more 'romantic' experience. The Wilkins, however, had clung to each other and their lives halfway across the globe in Broome, focusing on their dental practice and their marriage.

Blending those two lives together, her father assures her they are even stronger than before, appreciating what they have in a way they didn't know they should. The holidays this year were full of tears and healing. Hermione is grateful for every moment they spent enjoying old traditions and forging new ones for the future.

The rug beneath her feet is a luxury, tamping down the cold of the stone floors Hermione has endured for her formative years. She stands atop the heavily woven silk threads and stretches her back, her arms lifted and taut above her head.

So, yellow it is. For a color that is meant to represent happiness and optimism, she has always found it to be, frankly, quite agitating. It's going to be a long day.

No sense in putting it off. She dresses quickly and makes her way to breakfast, the jaundiced faces of her classmates greeting her in the Great Hall. What a nauseating color.

The worst class this week, in light of her curse, is Potions. Snape still runs his classroom with a general air of judgment and condescension, though tempered to some degree by his rather close brush with death. She was fortunate as to not having the class the day before, but today is a double session with Slytherin, and she is dreading it.

The first day, when her vision was red, she had acquired a note from Pomfrey to miss the class. The guilt, however, skipping a class when she is perfectly healthy, had stuck with her all day. This time, she prepares her satchel and heads toward the dungeons, head high and spine straight.

"How nice of you to join us today, Miss Granger."

Snape oozes his usual smarm and distaste, but Hermione has learned not to be so affected. He's not a dark wizard. Not a villain. Just a rather lonely and tragic man who is good at very little beyond potions brewing and defensive spells. Socially awkward, angry, and broken, where would he go beyond these walls?

So, Hermione has forgiven him his bullying and cruelty. She meets his sneer with a soft smile, answers, "Thank you, Professor. I sincerely regret missing my first class of the year," and takes her seat.

Beside her, the chair typically filled by Blaise Zabini sits empty. As purebloods go, he's been a rather enjoyable partner during the past few months. Civil on his worst days, he is downright flirtatious on this best. His sense of humour is a little sarcastic, but playful, and he's not exactly hard on the eyes.

Truthfully, most of Slytherin has been on its best behavior. A little quiet, a bit humbled, but many of their rank seem as relieved by the end of the war as the other houses. Those with Death Eater connections are the most reserved. Hermione had expected they might be sullen or angry, but they are victims as much as anyone, mourning their parents in some cases.

Tragedy has been the great equalizer, and rivalries such as houses, Quidditch, and blood status have seemed less important in the bonding of loss and sorrow.

Blaise hadn't lost anyone. His mother lives abroad, his father is deceased, and the closest thing to a friend missing from his life is Vincent Crabbe. "Never much liked him, honestly," he'd told her back in November, voice low. "Not to speak ill of the dead, Merlin bless his essence, but he was an angry prick. Stupid too."

Hermione glances about the room now and finds a few more empty seats before looking back toward their instructor.

"As you might have noticed," he begins without preamble, "a few of your number are missing this afternoon. The Headmistress has collected a portion of students from each year for a Transfiguration tutoring session. As such, you will work with temporary partners today.

He glances quickly, then barks out new pairings.

"Potter, with Nott. Longbottom, Parkinson. Granger," he sneers, then pauses. She waits, staring forward, unsure why the hesitation… Then, she remembers who usually partners with the worst Transfiguration student in school, Greg Goyle.

_No, no, no…_ Hermione blinks once, slow and calming, waiting for Snape to finish.

"...Mister Malfoy."

Her forehead hits the desk with a thud.

* * *

Well, isn't that just fucking great.

Draco angrily grabs his books, parchments, and quills to move next to Gryffindor's favourite daughter. He had chosen this seat on purpose, thank you very much. Knowing Goyle had been pulled aside for the day, he'd picked the only table in the room that only has one chair, usually reserved for special projects or punishments, and had set up shop for a lovely solitary day. If he had been lucky, he'd thought, Snape would let him work alone. It's not as if he really has a partner. He's been carrying Goyle in just about every way since they were toddlers.

Truthfully, he had been looking forward to it. A class without any of the inane chatter of his housemates? No judgement from the rest of the student body? It was fucking perfect up until this exact moment.

He stalks across the room, not meeting Snape's eyes. Had the man done this on purpose? He's _supposed_ to be his godfather. Nearly _family_. How could he possibly think this is a good idea, premeditated or not?

When he reaches the desk, he sees the witch in question has her head down as if her life has just ended. It's a bit dramatic, if you ask Draco, but then she has always had a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve. Sicing birds on your boyfriend and punching wizards for a little schoolyard rivalry is a bit beyond civilized behavior in his humble opinion.

Flopping down beside her, Draco sneers at her curl covered head, thinking she can't hide in the great mass of hair for long.

Finally, she looks up. Her expression is wary, eyes half closed and mouth set in an expression that reads resignation.

Then, her eyes widen like she hadn't expected to see him, and he has no idea why.

"What?" he barks at her, not much liking the look she's giving him, eyes roving his face and torso.

"N-nothing," Granger stutters back at him, then turns to the front of the room, eyes glued to the potion instructions on display.

Draco turns around himself, brow furrowed in irritation. He had thought they could at least be civil to one another. She hasn't shown any lingering grudge during the school year, making good on her very vocal pledge at house unity. She partners with Blaise every bloody week with no issue at all!

Alright so, no, Blaise didn't watch his aunt slice her up with a blade and _Crucio_ her until she nearly passed out, but even Potter had forgiven him at this point.

His mood is completely soured. How dare she? The whole of the wizarding world is letting him make a play at redemption, and this one swotty little Muggleborn is making him a villian. Absolute bollocks is what that is.

He's so lost in his own little tantrum he nearly misses the instructions for the day. Suddenly, Snape is making himself comfortable behind his desk, and Draco is left alone with his new partner.

"I can get the ingredients if you'd like to prep the cauldron?"

He looks over to find her waiting for an answer but unwilling to look at him.

Draco studies her, taking in the set of her shoulders, straight line of her back. She resolutely will not turn his way, no matter that the silence between them is moving past uncomfortable into the territory of downright awkward.

He shakes his head, clearing it, and mutters. "Sure. Fine." She rises, still looking forward, and then turns her body to leave their table down the narrow path by the wall rather than the wider aisle beside him. Is she _afraid_ of him? She can't seem to get away fast enough.

Angrily, Draco slams a fresh cauldron down in the center of their table and begins prep work on the flame, as well as rubbing down the interior with a cotton cloth. That step isn't in the book, but Draco knows it will yield the very best results. He's just wiping across the rim when his partner returns.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up to find her staring. Still unwilling to look in his direction, she is fixed on the cloth in his hand.

"Preparing the cauldron," he drawls back. Just to make a point, he brings the cloth back toward his body, tucking it slowly into his robes. Her eyes follow the movement until her field of vision is certainly focused his way, then snaps her eyes back.

"But...That's not..." Presumably searching for proof of her assertion, Hermione pulls her potions book closer to her, taking her seat as she skims through the instructions. She speaks softly to herself as she does. "Eye of... high flame...best results... soft blue..." _Finally_ , she looks his way, eyebrows cocked in question.

"No, it's not in the book, Granger," he answers, though she hadn't exactly asked. "You'll have to trust me on this one."

She snorts. Another unladylike habit of hers, though it is mildly endearing. Such a casual show of mirth. "Trust you? Yes, that seems likely."

Sarcasm? How droll.

"Right, that would be a terrible choice," he answers back, tit for tat; sarcasm for more. "It's not as if I have the highest marks in the class or anything."

"Because Snape is biased," she denies. "And more probably, you cheat."

Draco narrows his eyes. "I am an excellent potioneer, Granger. And Snape might not be nice to you, but he gives the marks that are earned. If his distaste for you was truly reflected on your scores, I dare say you'd be failing."

Scoffing, she begins preparing their doxie wings, dissecting each along the veins. Her hand is sure and careful, but her slices are missing the finer lines of the interior portion of the wing. "He can't do that," she continues, obviously still on their conversation regarding the professor. "It would be too obvious if he outright failed me-"

"Stop. Granger, stop," he interrupts and, as she pulls back in question, snags the small blade out of her hand.

"Hey!"

"Granger, you're butchering it. I'll apologize if I had you riled up, alright? I'm sure you're very good normally, but don't sabotage my project."

" _Sabotage?_ I am doing no such thing. I'll have you know my slices are pure precision."

"Yes, you precisely cut right through that vein!"

"I did not-" Then, she looks, squints... and her hand covers her mouth. "I didn't see it..."

When she looks back at him, he would swear there are tears in her eyes. Merlin, he knew she was dramatic, but really, it's one wing. They have a tray full to replace it.

"Look," he begins, thinking it uncharacteristic that he throw anyone a proverbial bone, but justifies it that his marks have been perfect all year, even with Goyle nearly mucking shite up each week, and he doesn't intend to let the "Brightest Witch" (what a fucking joke) mess up one of his last brews before N.E.W.T.s. "I'll take over this part, and you can begin crushing the knotgrass."

There, that should be easy. Crushing doesn't take much finesse.

He thinks she will argue, but instead she takes a breath and nods, pushing the tray of wings his direction and pulling the knotgrass into her center desk space. "Thanks," she mutters, and he thinks it probably cost her a lot.

Why she even agreed, he can't imagine, but he doesn't question it.

For the remainder of the period, they work in near silence. Granger seems resigned to let Draco take the lead, yet she doesn't question any more of his instructions. He tasks her with more complicated steps than he might have given Goyle, but nothing terribly delicate. She seems frustrated for just a moment when he takes the bat spleen to bifurcate, but only huffs in silence when he tells her she was about one millimeter off center where she lay her blade.

In the end, the potion is absolutely perfect. Draco could have accomplished it on his own, but he can't deny her work was impeccable as long as he gave her selective tasks.

"Color looks good," he says, finally. She was still stirring, though he wasn't sure why. While you can't over-stir this particular potion, it's not necessary to keep going once you reach that perfect shade of summer sky that is looking back at them now.

"Oh... oh, right. Yes." Granger ceases her movement and sits back at the desk. She looks a little peaked at this point. Or, maybe that's not the word. He had detected fear and confusion early on. Then frustration. Now she seems a little... melancholy.

She doesn't speak anymore, just stares toward the front of the room again. Rather than ignoring Draco, now it just seems her gaze is aimless and unfocused. Taking it upon himself to finish their assignment, he scoops a large sample of the potion into a vial and takes it to the front to deposit before Snape. When he lays it on the desk, the man looks up, and fucking balls if he doesn't look amused, the utter cock. Draco is more sure than ever he did this on purpose. Why he felt the need to torture Draco is anyone's guess, but then the man has been an enigma for over a decade, so perhaps this is a spy's version of 'fun'.

When he looks back, Granger is grabbing her things quickly. Just as Draco is making it back to the table, the end of class is signaled, and the skittish Gryffindor bolts from the room. He turns to watch her go, noting her curls and hips swinging with the quickness of her step. Brave lion, indeed. Draco shakes his head in annoyance as he cleans up his portion of the mess.

* * *

Draco Malfoy is fucking red. Bright, vibrant, angry red.

Hermione tears out of the potions classroom and heads straight to the hospital wing. If the spell is changing, getting worse…

Her feet nearly slip from beneath her when she rounds the last corner and sprints into the room. "Madame Pomfrey!"

The woman is bent over one of the sterile beds, her wand leading a roll of gauze around a young boy's arm. Looking up at Hermione, she shushes her immediately.

"Miss Granger, this is a place of healing, and I'll thank you to lower your voice."

Pomfrey is still yellow… from lemon to marigold, she is radiating the same nauseating color as the rest of the school.

With the glaring exception of Malfoy.

"I apologize, but I need your help please. In regards to my… condition."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Pomfrey chastises as she wipes her hands on the front of her smock. "People will think you're pregnant, going on like that."

Hermione blanches. She isn't sure why she hasn't wanted anyone to know about the spell she's under. Even Ron only knows she had to go to Pomfrey for treatment. He has no idea she is still living with the effects.

"Yes, ma'am. But there's been a development, you see. A change in the symptom."

"Alright then, let's have a look. And don't you move, Mister Harrison." She waggles a finger at the boy on the bed. Hermione thinks he can't be more than eleven. Do students seem younger than they had when she was that age?

Ushering Hermione to another bed and pulling the curtain around it, she prompts, "Well, then? What's happened."

Hermione takes a breath. "So today, my vision is yellow."

"How irritating."

Hermione nods in profound agreement.

"However, one person isn't yellow. He's red. He's the only thing, person or otherwise, that's not been the same as everything else since the accident."

The matron considers, brow scrunched in thought. "We are in uncharted waters, as they say, Miss Granger. This spell was never meant to be cast in this way."

"I'm more than aware," she answers dryly. Ron is in _such_ trouble, irrelevant that he won't know why.

"The fact that it has been reflecting your moods was simple enough. I suppose you were feeling optimistic today? Thought maybe the spell would be at an end, hence the sunny colour?"

"I had guessed," Hermione agrees. "Honestly, it all seems a bit subliminal. I hadn't realized how cross I was over the entire situation until I woke up to all the red."

"Regarding this person who isn't behaving as the curse dictates, did they make you angry? Perhaps your perception of them bled through as a stronger emotion than your overall day. Did you have a row?"

"No, not really. We'd not even spoken when I saw his color. Maybe he just always makes me angry," she muses, though she really thought she'd made strides toward forgiveness of the wizarding world at large. She even owled a handmade scarf to Lucius Malfoy.

" _To keep you cozy"_ , she had written, since the man is no longer legally able to cast a warming charm.

His response back had been a curt, " _Thank you for your consideration_ ," in the most beautiful penmanship she'd ever seen.

"Whatever the reason, I am afraid your course of action does not change. Continue to follow the potion regiment I allotted you. Would you like to be excused from classes for the rest of the day?"

Hermione considers it. Not being able to brew, cutting her doxie wings incorrectly because the golden hue made it hard to follow the veins, had been heartbreaking for her.

But to miss classes? "No, thank you. I'd prefer to attend."

The woman nods, ready to dismiss her, when she offers, "You might consider speaking with Sybill. Perhaps she could shed more light…"

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Trelawney?" She knows she sounds incredulous, probably leaning toward rude, but she can't muster a lot of respect for the charlatan. She had thought the matron shared her opinion.

Then again, Pomfrey seems to judge everyone equally, so perhaps she has no more annoyance for the Divination professor than any other instructor.

If anything, Pomfrey just looks amused. "We are all aware of your distaste for her particular branch of magic. But she might surprise you."

They stare at each other for a moment, the air feeling heavy, when finally the healer side steps Hermione and sweeps the curtain aside. "Food for thought, Miss Granger. Take care to continue your potions, and hopefully, this messy business will be over soon."

Hermione stares after the woman for a moment then snaps herself out of her trance. She wants her to see Trelawney? Fine then.

Turning on her heel, curls whipping,Hermione marches to the daft woman's opium den of a classroom. She better have some answers.

* * *

Draco is strolling casually from his Ancient Runes classroom toward the Great Hall, looking forward to a quiet lunch with no Gryffindors. He finds that if he arrives just after second period, he can eat in the company of Hufflepuffs more than any other house. A timely lot, the badgers, and they also tend to be a bit more kind than the lions. Part of the post-war reality is learning how to tread in a world that frowns upon blood purity. It has taken some adjustment on Draco's part.

Not that he isn't relatively satisfied with the outcome of war. Truthfully, he never saw the need for such violence against Muggles. Draco will take a peaceful political environment any day. He is, of course, still proud of his lineage, but it's something entirely different to be proud of something versus a desire to destroy everything else.

He's just rounding a corner when a mass of witch plows into him, nearly knocking him to the stones. The witch in question, a bit less sure on her feet, is not so lucky and ends up on her bum.

"Ow!" He watches her rub at her backside, bemused that she hasn't even bothered to look up. When she does, her expression hardens. "Not very polite, Malfoy. I thought you were meant to be well bred."

He snorts at her. "I'm not the one that rounded the corner like a hornback was on my tail. Where are you even- No,” interrupts himself before he can engage further. "You know what, I don't care. Excuse me."

He steps to the left, intent on making his way to lunch as planned.

"Really nice. Not even going to give me a hand?"

He stops and looks back with incredulity. "As if you'd deign to touch my slimy Death Eater hand."

"Well, you wouldn't know because you didn't offer, you oaf." She huffs at him, jaw set.

Oaf? One does not call Draco Malfoy an _oaf_. Staring briefly toward the heavens for fortification, Draco spins on his dragonhide heel and steps back in front of the witch. With one hand gallantly laid at his back and posture bent at the waist into an elegant bow, he offers his other, palm up. "Miss Granger, if I may?"

He doesn't imagine she will accept it. His mind conjures a quick scenario of her pouting and standing on her own, ignoring his hand and commenting she is capable of rising by herself. She likely didn't expect him to take her bait. But she doesn't know him very well. He smirks.

It seems, however, that he doesn't know her that well either. Rather than scoff at his gesture, she demurely straightens her skirt and lays one palm gently on his own. She moves with a bit of grace, if he's honest, and is suddenly standing before him, their hands still clasped.

"Thank you." Her voice is quiet, but not exactly soft. There's strength in her, even in this moment while a blush stains her cheeks.

Draco stares a moment, noticing for the first time the depth of color of her eyes, the highlights of gold in her hair. "You're welcome, Granger," he answers back, and his thumb plays across her knuckles gently.

That seems to snap her out of whatever trance she's fallen under, and she steps away, her hand leaving his.

He thinks she will say something, maybe apologize for the collision? Thank him again? Instead, she drops her gaze and her chin, and watches her feet as she moves down the hall in the direction she had been headed before their encounter.

Draco stares after her for a moment, finally continuing on his way when she is out of sight.

_What the fuck just happened?_

* * *

Hermione is a bit shaken as she nearly sprints toward Trelawney's tower. She's ruffled, and she doesn't much care for that feeling.

When she ran into Malfoy, her initial reaction was irritation. Bathed in red, despite the yellow surrounding him, it made sense that she would be angry for the collision as well as his attitude. Yet, when he bowed low and offered his hand, when his eyes studied her, no disgust or displeasure noted, her frustration gave way to curiosity. Nearly, dare she admit, intrigue. His touch was gentle and, suddenly, the red didn't feel angry anymore. It just seemed… bold.

She'd removed her hand and run away, very much not in her courageous nature.

Hardly realizing she had neared her destination, Hermione has to pull up short and dart to the door. It's open with no class in session, so she enters without knocking and finds the professor in a rather precarious looking Downward Dog.

"Erm.. Professor?"

The woman looks up from her position and begins to right herself. "Miss Granger," she acknowledges. "Not a student I expected to see in my classroom ever again."

Hermione tilts her chin and looks down her nose. "I would have thought that myself, yet here I am. Didn't predict that, I suppose?"

Perhaps she's being a touch disrespectful, but there is almost no one on earth as abjectly irritating to Hermione Granger. She expects the professor might become cross, but instead she offers her that obnoxious, knowing smile of hers.

"The insight of the earth is a mysterious wonder I do not presume to understand. I only give voice to the gift it grants."

With lips thinned, Hermione takes a breath through her nose and clips out, "Right. Anyway, I'm here because Madame Pomfrey thought you could give me some insight. I've been affected by a spell that originated from your curriculum."

"Good heavens… _have you_? How in Merlin's name did that happen?"

Hermione can't tell if the woman sounds rehearsed and sarcastic, or her usual brand of dramatics.

"I was assisting one of your students with his homework, and there was an issue with the spellcasting. It seems now I am hexed with color-coded visions to coordinate with my mood."

Trelawny frowns at that. "That shouldn't be. I abandoned that particular study years ago. Rather tired of listening to Poppy complain about it to be honest."

Hermione huffs. "Well, however it happened, I've been very much not enjoying my days colored in red, orange, and now, yellow."

The professor perks up at that. "In that order?"

"Yes… is that important?"

Waving her hand around, the woman begins to tidy pillows and such about her room. "It's an entirely different exercise, and far less unpredictable. Your days will continue as such with the most basic colors within the spectrum. You have yet to enjoy green, blue, indigo, and violet. Once those days are complete, your vision will return to normal."

Well, that seems innocuous enough. It also gives the entire experience an expiration date, which makes Hermione feel much better. Then she remembers the anomaly and frowns. "That's all well and good, but I still think the spell was cast improperly. I've had an odd occurrence today. Everything is yellow except for one person."

That perks her right up. "Oh, indeed? And what color was this person?"

"Red. A rather vibrant red. It's a bit off-putting," she grumbles.

"And was this red person a classmate, Miss Granger? A wizard?"

She nods and doesn't like the cheshire smile that stretches across the woman's face.

"Perhaps the spell worked a little more effectively than I thought. You see," she starts, slipping into her fanciful lecture mode that Hermione absolutely does not miss, "the spell is designed to show us a spectrum of color, but, in some unique and rare circumstances, it might show us something more…"

Hermione breathes through her nose and prays for patience. She knows she's supposed to prompt now… she _knows_ that… but Merlin, this woman. A moment of silence more, she grits her teeth, and then asks as politely as she can, "Oh, yes? And what is it to show us?"

"Why, your destiny of course."

Of course.

Of _fucking_ course.

The most ridiculous answer possible. What else was she to expect.

"Right, well then, thank you for your help." Turning on her heel, Hermione makes for the door.

"Miss Granger, don't you want to know about your future? I could be much more effective if we steeped some leaves-"

"No, thank you. I believe I've heard enough. A few more days, and this nightmare is over."

She makes it all the way to the door, intent on ignoring anything else, when the professor throws out in an oddly haunting voice, "Red is the hue of your fire and sun, passion and fate. Rising above all other elements, eclipsing the colors of your life."

Hermione doesn't stop, tearing herself out of the room, and closes her eyes to block out the sunny world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! There is another after this as well which is with my dearest beta LightofEvolution right now! Thanks to her, In Dreams, and MCal, my invaluable team and friends. Huge love to all of you reading as well!

Green turns out to be a rather pleasant day. The weekend has arrived, and, as such, Hermione spends her afternoon after classes outside by the lake. She finds her vision to be nearly normal against the natural world. The lake takes on the look of water with a bit too much algae, and glancing down at her own skin is a bit sickening, but all in all, her day passes without incident. Harry and Ron collect her at some point for a late dinner.

Walking into the Great Hall, laughing at something the boys are retelling from their day, she almost doesn't see Malfoy. She looks up just as they cross paths, him leaving just as she enters, and she nearly stops dead, her double take comedic.

There, set against the emerald and jade and olive, is a beacon of stark crimson and blood. She doesn't stop walking, but she knows he sees her stare. The scowl he gives her tells her that. He doesn't seem to appreciate her notice.

* * *

Blue matches her mood, exhausted and a little down from dealing with a confusing and stressful week. Only two to go is her mantra for the day, very much looking forward to her life getting back to normal once again.

* * *

A lazy Sunday morning greets Hermione in the rich hues of indigo. Less melancholy than the blue of the previous day, there is a luxurious quality to the shade that Hermione finds almost indulgent.

Selecting a pair of denims (which are probably the closest thing to their true color in her vision) and a jumper that she recalls by texture and design is probably a rustic orange, Hermione makes her way to breakfast with a spring in her step. Only one more day, and no more potions sessions until this is over. No more potential of failing grades… Tomorrow is Arithmancy and History of Magic; she thinks she can face that just fine through violet tinted eyes. All that leaves is how to spend a quiet day. Reading is always a good distraction. The letters and pages showing deep royal on pale azure shouldn't be too difficult.

Gryffindor tower is always late to wake, so Hermione makes her way to the Great Hall alone, a selection of books tucked into her bag. The Hall itself is also quiet, a pleasure to be sure.

Taking a seat at Ravenclaw, she makes small talk with Luna. The flighty personality of the eccentric witch does not always appeal to Hermione, though sometimes she finds her open lack of judgment terribly comforting. After a hard week, a bit of Nargles and radish jewelry sounds strangely uncomplicated.

"You don't seem quite yourself this week, Hermione. It seems as though some Wrackspurts may have taken up residence behind your eyes."

Nevermind. Fucking iritating as ever.

"Well, I'm sure they will move along soon enough," Hermione answers, shmearing a bit of strawberry jam on a slice of pumpernickel.

At least, she hopes it's strawberry. The seeds seem indicative. Could be raspberry…

Blackberry. _Goddammit._

"Hmmm," Luna hums back at her, thinking very hard on the situation. "They certainly might. Are you sure you're not having any ill effects? I may have some Humdinger droppings in my bag, if you'd like me to try and lure them out…"

"NO!... No. Thank you, Luna. That's quite alright." Hermione rises and steps back from the table with a thin smile. Her toast she leaves. It's ruined anyway. "I have some reading to get to, if you'll excuse me."

"Have a lovely day, Hermione," the witch says in her airy way. "Be careful today. Your aura seems awfully blue. Maybe periwinkle… I can't quite tell if you're sad or pensive, but if you are low on sage or crystals, I have plenty enough to share."

It's a sweet thought, Hermione reminds herself. Generous. She smiles back, a bit more sincere, as she makes her escape. "I appreciate it. I'm sure it's just a temporary situation. I'll see you later!"

She bolts, not liking the feeling of someone walking over her grave that Luna sometimes gives her. Blue aura and creatures messing up her eyes… All those little things that always makes it seem like Luna isn't as ludicrous as Hermione's logic knows she must be.

Turning down a quiet corridor, Hermione is making her way to an empty part of the castle where she sometimes takes her reading material. More private than the library, more hidden than the grounds, it's a nook just west of the Transfiguration classroom, a tapestry hiding it mostly from view. She's been coming here all year and not once seen anyone else.

Not once… until right this moment. _The fuck?!_ There are shoes poking out from underneath the tapestry. Fancy custom made dragon hide ones… and they were easy to spot because they are practically glowing red.

She growls and spins on her heel.

* * *

Draco hears the clicking of shoes with a low heel nearly racing toward his position. Surely no one will find him here. He just wanted a little quiet, is that so much to ask? Over the course of the last few weeks, he has found this to be the perfect respite when he just wants to read or unwind.

The clicking stops, and someone growls… literally growls… like a beast. Who does that?

He peeks out and finds a mass of curls swinging away. He should just let her go. She's bloody leaving… _just let her, Draco. Just allow her to walk away, and she'll never know you even saw her. She will leave you alone and find somewhere else to do whatever swotty thing she was looking to-_

"Granger!"

_Well, now you've done it._

He watches her turn and look at him, eyes wide. "Malfoy?"

"A bit far from your den, little lion. Looking for something?"

"Solitude," she clips out, "so obviously this isn't the place for me."

He shrugs at her, feigning indifference, but for some odd reason he would actually like her to stay. Draco has been seeking privacy and quiet all year, but that's mostly because he feels awkward in groups. Something about sparring with Granger, riling her up and letting her bite back, feels like home; like things aren't that different from how they were before.

_Before_ is a pretty significant concept for Draco at this point. Before the war. Before he fell. Before the world watched him break apart, only to eye him with disdain for trying to heal.

"I'm just reading, Granger. Not quite solitude, but if you're looking for quiet, it's a good spot." He gestures to the alcove out of which he is half leaned, the wall supporting his palm as he peers out at her.

"I'm aware it's a good spot. Typically, it's _my_ spot, but it seems you beat me to it."

"Oh, yes?" he says, with a quirk of his brow. "Here I thought it was my own secret hideaway. I've never seen you here."

She steps closer, and something about that movement feels like a victory. "Well, I'm here a lot when there are other activities. Quidditch, and the like. You probably go to all the games."

He glances away, a needle of ice piercing his insides at the thought. "No. I don't go to the games. I usually sneak off to Hogsmeade those days."

"I thought you were quite invested in Quidditch," she answers back, a lilt to her voice like it's a question.

"I'd rather play," he tells her honestly. Oddly honest for him. _Terribly_ honest when speaking to her.

"You didn't make the team? I mean, I know Harry usually beat you, but I thought you seemed like a really strong flyer as well." She has her head cocked to the side, like she's puzzling him out.

With a long-suffered sigh, Draco gestures to the other half of the wide window seat. "If you're staying…" he prompts.

She hesitates for only a moment, then steps forward with her head up like she has something to prove. Once she has settled in, arranging her skirt primly over her lap, she levels him with an expectant look.

Draco would suppose he had implied that he would answer when he asked her to sit. Taking his original seat, one leg propped on the window ledge and his back against the stone, he continues being frightfully honest for some reason.

"I didn't try for the team. I was given the impression that my attendance would be frowned upon, as well as a waste of everyone's time. I think I spent that day at Rosmerta's with enough fingers of Firewhisky to make a pair of hands."

"She let you in?" The question is blurted and inelegant, and immediately her cheeks pink. "I'm sorry. That was very rude."

He waves it away. Being a Slytherin, so seldom do any of his fellows say what they mean. He's not sure if it's obnoxious or refreshing, but he's choosing to be positive today. "I went to see her just before the start of the year and apologized for casting against her. She was pretty fucking understanding, actually. Called me a "misguided lad." I don't think she ever saw me as a threat as much as just a fucked up child."

"It's amazing how forgiving people can be when you just ask for it. Not many people hold grudges if you just say you're sorry."

She's looking away, looking pensive. Draco isn't a moron, thanks. It's an opening… a hint… but pride is his enemy, and he can't say the word.

"Yes, well, it was easier with someone like her. If she laughed in my face, just don't go back to her fucking pub. Others… that I have to see every day…? Well, there's a reason my tie isn't red and gold, Granger. I don't have the brash stupidity to put myself out there."

There. That's as close and he thinks he can get. Let her read between the lines. Or don't. What the fuck ever.

"Seems like that might be lonely," she muses. It could have been said with pity, but she seems only contemplative. He actually appreciates that: the lack of pity. He's surprised she has it in her not to pass judgement.

"Maybe," he allows, studying cracks in the stone that lines the window, resolutely not looking her way. "Safe, though. Better alone than dealing with other people's baggage."

He senses her movement, and finally looks up to see her studying him, trying to work out the puzzle of Draco Malfoy. It makes him uncomfortable in more ways than one, not all of them entirely unpleasant. He studies her back, allowing himself to indulge just this once in tracking the line of freckles that dot the bridge of her nose, accenting her skin in a way that is uniquely her.

She stands, and he's disappointed, but she looks down and smiles.

"I think I might just forgive you, if it's all the same, even if you didn't ask. Take care, Draco."

And then she flounces away, grinning, hair swinging, and leaves Draco to fall back against the bricks, the air puffing out of his lungs.

* * *

Hermione feels good. Excellent. Who knew forgiveness could be so healing? A world class holder of grudges (see also: Marietta Edgecombe), it's a rare thing to be so magnanimous. What utter relief…

Draco had started snarky and mildly unpleasant; pretty typical, absolutely on brand, but there had been less edge to his comments and a less distasteful expression on his face. Maybe that's why she had elected to stay when he invited her. Something about sitting next to him and reading hadn't felt right. They just aren't to that point. But to finish the conversation they started, the most honest and frank conversation she'd ever had with the wizard, had felt almost natural.

It is painfully obvious he has a lot of demons, a number of regrets, but he doesn't seem to know how to face them. If Harry could speak at his trial, which he had done with classic Potter flair (impassioned and slightly manic), the least Hermione could do was throw him a bone and graciously accept the implied apology he was loath to deliver.

She feels light, unbothered by the deep, earthy blue that surrounds her. Draco had been red, of course, but since Hermione doesn't believe in fate, or divination, or the words of a quack named Sybill, she is still chalking that up to the agitation he has always created. She wonders if he will be a different color tomorrow, if he will fade into the plum and lilac, taking on the same purple hues as all the other students.

Fate, indeed. Ridiculous. But losing the glaring red that signifies him would feel like a victory to Hermione. There is a sense of being untethered, the weight of blame, of judgement, lighter on her shoulders. Maybe she should send Marietta the counter-hex. Perhaps she's suffered enough for her betrayal.

She forgets the thought almost as quickly as it is formed. Hermione is feeling generous, but that little bitch had it coming.

At dinner that evening, Hermione applies mayonnaise to her dinner roll rather than butter, the ceramic crocks housing them being a similar size and the colors too difficult to distinguish in her current blue-tinted state. The table at large laughs at her, and she smiles back sheepishly, spouting out some typical excuse about her thoughts on school work, and too much reading before bed, and oh, silly Hermione, mind in a million places except right here...

It actually doesn't cause her as much distress as it might have yesterday. Why she is so pleased to be on civil ground with Malfoy is a mystery, but Hermione doesn't ponder on it too closely. Certainly, nothing to do with fate. She repeats as much that evening as she prepares for bed, looking forward to an amethyst colored Draco on the morrow. Trelawney will see. Nothing but mood and magic; no futures were told, no sooths were sayed, in the telling of this story.

Hermione snuggles into bed that night, feeling like she is back in control. One last day, a pretty, wine colored day, and this whole mess will be far behind her.

* * *

Draco has had a great deal of time to ponder grand concepts recently, forgiveness among them.

Granger forgives him? And he hadn't even asked. He is stunned, to say the least, but tries not to dwell. Monday classes are a distraction, but his mind drifts more than once. His gaze lands on Granger when they pass in corridors; he finds himself looking for her in the Great Hall.

Rosmerta had forgiven him as well, but there is something different coming from Potter's witch. Something that makes him feel included, like the wizarding world might not turn their collective back on him yet.

He watches Zabini approach her that evening, Potions notes in his hands. It's more than obvious to Draco the wizard is using any excuse to chat her up. He's been witness to the flirting of his friend all year. Granger seems fairly unaffected by the charms of Slytherin's notoriously charming snake, though he would swear she faintly blushes now.

It's becoming, the way her demeanor softens and her eyes hold fast on Zabini's face. Draco isn't sure she's interested, but she certainly isn't discouraging the attention.

Why this is Draco's concern, he isn't quite aware, and he goes back to his meal, steadfastly ignoring the rest of the exchange.

"I think I'm wearing her down."

Draco looks up to find Zabini plopped down across from him.

Completely aware of the answer, Draco asks anyway. "Who are you wearing down?"

"Granger," he answers with a grin. "Is she looking at me?"

Not wanting to comply, but nor is he interested in listening to Zabini prod, Draco rolls his eyes and glances over, only to lock his gaze with Granger. She looks away quickly, staring at her plate with a vengeance.

"No." _But she's looking at me_ , he thinks, gloating ever so slightly.

"Probably doesn't want to be obvious." Zabini grins around a bite of potato, but Draco's mind is wandering again.

When Granger stands to leave, Draco begins to make excuses himself. Zabini waves him off, hardly noticing where his gaze has been focused.

Once free of the table, he picks up his pace, hoping he hasn't missed her. Just through the doors, he catches a flash of her robes as she turns the corner, and he nearly jogs down the hall.

"Granger."

She turns, eyebrows lifted in question.

Now what? He'd hardly thought further than this. Something lingers in his mind in regards to her, and letting her leave feels wrong. In the end, he blurts out, "How can you forgive someone that didn't ask for it?"

Scrunching up her nose in that adorable way she has, she ponders the question. "Forgiveness is mine to give. You don't have to ask for it. Of course, if you had, it probably would have happened faster," she adds, lips quirked up into a crooked grin.

He steps closer. "Then why now? We've hardly spoken all year. Most everyone won't even look at me. A few days ago, _you_ would hardly look at me. Now, suddenly, you're staring and doling out forgiveness… _why_?"

Draco watches as she chews her lip. Contemplating once more. He hadn't thought his questions were all that difficult. _Why are you looking? What made you change what you see?_

"If it would make you feel better, you can still ask."

"I… that's not how this works, Granger," he argues, taken aback.

"Then I suppose you'll have to accept it anyway," she says with a shrug and a smile, light on her feet, like a weight is lifted.

Well, he's glad she's feeling great about it, because Draco feels like a prick. He's left there standing when she walks away with a wave.

* * *

When Hermione wakes the next morning, it is with palpable relief. Her sheets are red, her hair is brown, and her hands are perfectly suited to bifurcate a spleen, thanks very much. She wears a sunny smile all morning, taking in the myriad colors of the world and relishing the simple luxuries of choosing the right jam and matching up her socks. She makes her way to Potions with a spring in her step, hoping very much for incredibly delicate slicing required.

* * *

Draco doesn't sleep much after his last few odd encounters with Granger. Not that he has been slumbering peacefully since right around sixth year, but his insomnia reaches bold new heights.

When Potions rolls around, he walks with haste to the classroom and arrives just as Zabini is taking his usual seat. "Zabini, switch me. I'm tired of carrying the weight with Goyle. Your turn."

His friend barely glances up, ignoring the urgency in Draco's tone. "You just want to benefit from Granger's brilliance. That's a losing trade for me, mate."

"Blaise." Draco waits for his level tone to make impact. When Zabini looks up at him, he tries again, jaw clenched. "Switch with me. Please."

The man studies him for a moment before some sort of recognition flits across his eyes. "Fine," he says, sounding like he's pouting, but no longer giving any fight. "I'll leave you to it, but, Draco, don't bring _down her marks_ ," he says with odd emphasis. "If you seem not to be a...fitting partner, I will not hesitate to slink back in. Understood?"

Nodding with relief and just a hint of gratitude, Draco agrees, "Quite," as his friend gathers his things and stomps to the back of the room.

"Budge over, Greg, I like the aisle."

Draco listens as Greg mutters about not enough leg room by the wall but can hardly be arsed to care. Especially so when Granger comes flouncing in, looking like the cat who got, not only the canary, but a fucking nest full of sacrificial birds covered in cream.

She stops dead, however, when she sees Draco beside her chair, her eyes flickering to Zabini in the back.

Has he miscalculated? Draco stiffens, unsure.

But then she continues her pace, looking down at her feet but making her way to his table nonetheless.

"Morning, Malfoy."

"Granger," he greets carefully in reply. "You've seemed much more chipper this morning than the past couple of days." Regardless that her face dropped upon seeing him, she had been downright sunny when she walked in.

Placing her bag beside her, she begins to pull out her text and parchments. "What's not to be happy about? The sky is blue, the grass is green... The world is just as it should be."

He frowns. Her demeanor has completely flipped. Draco leans back in his chair and pretends to be casually unaffected.

Potions class in general, at least her performance therein, is a vast improvement on the last. When they are tasked with preparing the lady's mantle, her blade follows the veins of the leaves with such precision, he wonders what had been wrong with her the week before. She's confident and in charge, just as he always imagined she would be in a partner.

He finds that he doesn't mind at all, allowing her to dole out particular steps for him to accomplish while she shoulders equal work. This is what one would think would entail having a 'partner'. No wonder Zabini was loath to give her up.

Draco chances a quick look to the back of the room to find Zabini scowling while Goyle rubs at his robes with a cloth, apologizing in his gruff, angry way.

"I don't know how you convinced Blaise to switch you, or why, but he seems to be struggling."

Looking back, Draco finds Granger watching Blaise with amusement. He shrugs at her. "I thought it was high time I took back my Potions marks. I had a taste of a better partner last week, and I think I'd like to keep her."

She blinks, his phrasing perhaps more possessive than necessary, and it makes him grin when her cheeks go a soft pink.

The rest of class is spent in mostly silence, Draco stealing glances at her and, sometimes, just all out watching. He doesn't much care if she notices.

She flashes him a quick smile once they are finished and she has packed up her kit, rising to leave the room. Draco isn't sure why she is back to being jumpy and nervous, and not the good kind he would like to instill in a pretty witch. He blurts out just before she leaves their table, "Same time next week?"

Granger looks at him in question.

Hooking his thumb in the direction of Blaise and Goyle as they frantically try to bottle and stopper their potion, he continues, "I'm completely spoiled now. Next week is the final phase of _Felix Felicis_ , and I'd really like to get that one right. Partners?"

Her eyes dart between his, and Draco feels his heart pick up it's pace. What if she refuses? Sets up with Blaise in advance to reject this small move toward civility? He takes one slow breath through his nose and holds it until she speaks.

"Alright. Partners, I suppose. See you, Malfoy."

And then she's gone and Draco releases his breath. He's not sure if he did something really right today or really wrong, but she agreed anyway.

Why it is so important to him that she did, he's not quite ready to admit, but he leaves the room with a slight curl on his lip, satisfied with the outcome.

* * *

"Professor! Professor, Trelawny, are you here?"

Hermione races into the Divination tower only to find it empty, colorful pillows strewn about and incense wafting, but no batty instructor in attendance. Huffing, Hermione looks for entrances to any side rooms and finds none.

"You are looking for me, Miss Granger?"

She spins in place to find the professor entering behind her, scarves flapping in her wake.

"He's still red," Hermione blurts out. "You told me seven days and that was it!" She sounds indignant and doesn't care. This was supposed to be over, and here she is, faced with a crimson Draco Malfoy once again.

"If you recall," the woman answers, flitting about, fluffing pillows and arranging censors, "I told you that your spell had marked your destiny. The original charm is a bit of fun. What you are experiencing is something wholly profound."

"Destiny," she repeats in deadpan. "That's ridiculous. First, we make our own decisions, Professor. What is that supposed to imply? He's my soulmate?" She spits out the word with disdain then continues before the professor can reply. "Secondly, how does that even work? Is he going to be red for the rest of my life?! That seems like quite a punishment if I'm supposed to know him. It's… off putting, to say the least. Like he's bathed in blood." She shudders in revulsion.

"Of course not. The spell is a marker of fate, child. It will only last until your fate is realized, either by acceptance or denial."

"How do I accept something utterly incomprehensible? Or deny it for that matter?" Incredulity makes a home in Hermione's mind. This entire situation is so ludicrous, and yet, unless her eyes are deceiving her, there _is_ some magic at play.

"Life happens, Miss Granger, and choices are ours to mould the future. That which is predestined may be shaped by actions. In this case, your connection is not a prophecy as such, but a possibility that it is yours to choose."

Hermione wrinkles her nose as she absorbs that little gem. "Doesn't sound much like fate at all, then. Everything is a possibility. If it's on us to make it happen… Well, isn't that just life? Circumstance? Coincidence?"

The professor shakes her head in such a way that Hermione feels might be pity, which she does not appreciate, thanks. She bristles, waiting for the reply.

"You were always much too rigid for my course of study, Miss Granger. Your Muggle science can do much to explain the world, the 'how' of it, but my field will forever be the 'why.'" She stops then and waves her hand like none of it matters, saying as much in her next comment. "It's irrelevant. You believe, or you do not. But if you want to know more about the spell that affects you and the 'why' of it, all I can say is that you would do well to pay attention to Mister Malfoy. Nothing may come of it, or it might be everything in the end. But if you are not open to possibilities, Miss Granger… well, even your scientists would agree that we must have open minds if we are to evolve, would they not?"

When Hermione doesn't answer, not at all liking where this conversation has gone, Trelawney goes about bustling and straightening her room. "If that is all? I have a class in a few minutes, and I've tea to prepare."

"Right. Of course… Thank you for your time." Hermione turns and makes her way out the door, feeling a bit stunned and like none of her questions were answered, but that the mysteries of the universe were turned a little bare.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this! I had meant to post over the weekend and it got away from me.
> 
> Continued love to my team In Dreams, LightofEvolution, and Mcal. Also, I added a final scene to this post-edit so the team cannot be blamed for any errors or poor choices on my part lol
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers and just a general Happy Holiday season to everyone. I have an advent piece that will be revealed in December so be on the lookout for that if you are so inclined! I love holiday fests :)
> 
> As always, thank you endlessly to all of you for reading.

Considering she was the one who approached him, who forgave him with no prompting, Granger spends the rest of the week doing a bang up job of ignoring Draco completely. It serves as quite aggravating, which is a mystery unto itself. Why the fuck is he so concerned? They had what? Three conversations worth anything? So why is he so affected by her inattention?

The most obvious answer is that it had felt wonderful for just a moment, not to be treated like a villain from one of the good ones. As if he'd dubbed her emissary of the Light, her polite and charming interactions, brief and few that they were, had been something he couldn't have known he was missing.

Now she's back to the way she treated him years before. Turning her head when they brush their gazes, leaving the Great Hall as he enters, her meal not finished and her eyes down. She agreed to partner in Potions, but he's not sure what that looks like with her distaste for him reignited.

Another weekend has come, and Draco is doing what he always does when the bulk of the student body makes their way to Hogsmeade: staying far away from the village and hiding in plain sight on the lowly populated grounds.

He's sitting with his back against a tall elm, tossing a Snitch in the air and catching it, when he hears her laughter bounce across the acoustics of the lake. Peeking around the trunk, he catches Granger waving a farewell to Dean Thomas, Lovegood, and the Bones girl from Hufflepuff. They wave back as she walks away, tucking a curl behind her ear to keep the light breeze from blowing it into her eyes. She doesn't see him, and he watches her approach as her friends head back to the castle.

Eyes still down, she's digging around in her bag and finally comes up with a book. He grins just a little. Of course she is. Reading by the lake on a sunny afternoon. It's so fucking 'Granger' he's never found her more endearing.

She walks past him, no more than a few paces away, and lays her robe onto the ground like a picnic blanket. Settling in, Granger opens her book and begins to read, never noticing his eyes on her.

Does he approach? Best case, they have a nice conversation, and she finds herself comfortable in his presence again. Worst case, he drives her away, further alienating her and ruining both of their lovely solitary afternoons.

Not to mention, buggering his chance to brew a decent final potion if she sticks him back with Goyle. The last stage of a good Felix is the trickiest part, six months of preparation in peril in those final moments.

Draco watches her a bit longer. Long enough to start feeling like a bit of a creep. With a sigh at himself, he rises and makes his way quietly toward the witch in question.

She's absorbed, delicate hands holding her book, fingertips turning pages at a fairly rapid rate. He wonders what she's reading, if it's anything he's read before. Could they have a conversation about the book? If he can catch a glimpse, it could be his opening. An innocuous way to start a conversation and not seem like a reprobate stalking a young witch. Maybe he could-

His boot snaps a stick in half and her head shoots up, eyes locking onto his. Unsure how else to proceed, he gives her a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I was trying to be quiet." At her slightly more horrified look, he elaborates. "I didn't want to startle you, I just… was wondering what you're reading."

He cringes internally. It sounds like a bad chat up line and he knows it.

She looks down at the book in her hands then back up to his face. "Just a Muggle book," she answers, and he isn't sure he's welcome to ask more. Not sure he's terribly welcome to be in her presence at all.

"I've never read a Muggle book," he says, fully aware how obvious that must sound, but he is gratified when she giggles a little.

"No, I can't imagine you have. Don't tell me you're interested," she asks with a smirk, and he smiles back in kind, taking it as an invitation to approach.

Once he reaches her spot, he drops down into the grass, careful not to sit on her robes. That seems a step too intimate, so he keeps a respectful distance between them and leans back on his elbows, gazing over the lake.

"Tell me about it?"

He doesn't take his eyes off the lake, heart beating a little faster at the ensuing silence. He half expects her to excuse herself, but then she's speaking again.

"It's about one of the Muggle wars. Not sure if you know… well, anything about them, I guess. But Muggles have wars and conflicts all the time, some worse than others but all bloody."

He contemplates longer than is probably comfortable before musing darkly, "So we're not all that different then."

"No," she agrees with a sad laugh, "not at all."

He only pauses a moment before breaking the short silence quite soundly. "Do you really think you can forgive me, Granger? Because it seems like maybe you said it without thinking."

He can virtually hear her bristle as she responds stiffly, "I do very little without thinking."

"No argument on that. But as much as you said you could, you've been avoiding me." He looks at her, finds her glaring, and asks, "Why are you avoiding me if you don't hate me?"

He watches as she studies his face, eyes bouncing between his own. "I don't know if I should tell you," she admits with a whisper.

A lot of possibilities flash through his mind. Perhaps her friends are to blame? Maybe the Weasel heard word of their civility and put his foot down. He seems the type to demand her loyalty, even if (according to _The Prophet_ ) their romantic entanglement met a fast end.

Maybe she simply remembered all the things he'd done. Or, fuck, maybe she's been talking to someone else about the war. Draco was spared from the worst of Death Eater realities, he never killed anyone, but his hands are hardly clean. It's probably too much for her. The forgiveness she was ready to dole out, snatched away in the face of what he's done.

And why does he even care? He's lived eighteen years without Hermione Granger's approval. It's not as if it changes anything. She's still a Muggleborn, and he's the son of a Death Eater, and the very notion that they could have been friends was nothing but an indulgent fantasy.

Stiffening his posture, feeling riled despite the civil discord, he starts to rise from the ground. "Don't worry about it, Granger. Keep your secrets and your forgiveness."

"Wha- Malfoy?"

He feels her hand on his arm, but it slides off as he stands. He's five paces toward the castle when she calls his name again and another three when he hears the scuffle of her trying to rise.

"Malfoy!"

Six more paces, and his stride is much longer than hers. It's because of this he realizes she must have run to catch up when her small hand grabs the back of his jumper.

" _Hey!_ What is your problem?"

He rounds on her, incensed by her bossy tone as much as he is enamoured by her flushed cheeks. More than anything, he's angry at himself. He let her make him believe things might be different, and he's fairly irritated at his own stupidity.

"Nothing," he answers. "I'm excellent. Look, I'm doing you a favour here, alright? You're having second thoughts, and I'm walking away. We can both save face."

He starts to turn, but her honest confusion gives him pause. "Second thoughts? The hell are you talking about? I'm just…hesitant…"

He rolls his eyes. Such an innocuous way to imply that she's terrified of him. Or disgusted by him. _Hesitant_ … Yes, he would imagine that's the least of it. Draco is coming up with a response, a scathing reply to whatever she is about to hint at, when she surprises him yet again.

"I was hexed, you see. Or maybe hexed is too strong a word? It was just a charm gone wrong, no malice intended. But, I've been led to believe that maybe it showed me something profound. Something… in regards to you."

Granger looks up at him through her dark lashes, and he is mortified to say he feels his breath catch. Something in her expression is so vulnerable, it makes him swallow down an urge to protect her from harm.

It's not the first time he feels that way, but the circumstances now are considerably less dire yet much more intimate than that awful night in his ancestral home.

Draco doesn't like at all this wrong-footed feeling that he is starting to associate with Granger. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Tell me or don't, alright? But don't dance around it expecting me to drag it out of you."

She stomps her foot once, fists balled at her side. "I'm not doing that! I'm just… I'm working up to it. I don't even believe in this nonsense, but it's hard not to believe in something when you see it with your own bloody eyes day in and day out! How does it even make any sense!? Soulmates?! Most ridiculous, illogical, asinine, nonsense I've ever heard, and of course Trelawney doesn't help matters, with her tea leaves and scarves and vegan granola, and I know she just makes up insanity to keep students interested in her vapid-"

" _Granger!"_

She's shocked into silence as Draco stares at her with wide eyes. "Merlin, witch, when you get on a tirade…"

"Sorry. It's just, I tend to have a lot to say on the subject, but it's an unpopular opinion."

"What subject? You do realize you're having a conversation without letting anyone participate?" Fuck him, if it isn't adorable when she's agitated like this. Like a wet kitten.

There's another moment of silence during which they just stare at each other, and Draco let's himself pretend for just a moment that maybe they can be friends. A little fantasy never hurt anyone, right?

Finally, she gestures back toward the lake. "Can we sit back down? I left my robe over there."

He glances to where she means and finds her robe still strewn across the ground. She must have been quite insistent on regaining his attention. Something about that fact heartens him, and so, he agrees. "Sure. Lead the way." Draco sweeps his arm out for her to go ahead, and then falls in step beside her for the short journey back.

* * *

When they are seated once again on the ground, Hermione is back to the embarrassing loss of words when they were here only a few moments ago. She huffs at herself, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He's back to looking at the lake, poised and unaffected. Everything must be so easy for the Malfoy scion, and it aggravates her to no end. How luxurious to never wonder who you are, to never be that fish out of water that it was to be a Muggleborn in a magical world. And they are supposedly fated?

"It doesn't even make sense," she says aloud, finishing her silent thought. When he doesn't prompt, she just tears into the conversation, destructive as rending flesh, and hopes she's not the one left bleeding.

"A spell was cast against me as I mentioned. It affected my sight for a few days, leaving me seeing the world in monochromatic themes of color. One day everything was yellow, another day shades of blue… I've been through all the prismatic colors of the rainbow, and it's finally back to normal."

She looks again to make sure he's listening. He nods but still doesn't speak.

"The thing is, that's all it was supposed to do, but it was cast wrong. And so, everyday, instead of the color of the rest of the world, you have been in shades of red."

That gets his attention. He squints at her, working it out. "Red?"

"Red," she confirms. "Shades of it. So your skin is actually more a pale blush because you're so fair. Your hair isn't much darker. Your robes though, brick red. Your tie is striped in crimson and light rose. And, even though my sight is back to normal, _you_ are still like this. Only you," she finishes quietly, her bravery failing her. How in Merlin's name does she admit the next part? The part she doesn't believe and is likely to serve to anger him.

But he's smart, Draco Malfoy, and he's already piecing together what she said with what she hasn't. "And Trelawney," he nudges, "she had something to say about this? Something _illogical,_ was it?"

Closing her eyes, searching for fortitude in the darkness behind her lids, she rasps out an unsure, "Yes. She said that whoever I was seeing differently, it's because we are meant to be… more."

Inside herself, she hides away, breathing shallow and trying to make herself look small. Expecting laughter or anger or scoffing disbelief, she armours herself for a long beat before opening her eyes to find him staring back at her.

With a soft and sad smile, she asks, "See? Silly, right?"

Slowly, side to side, Draco shakes his head. His disbelief seems beyond words, so Hermione fills the silence for him. "I know, it's unbelievable. This is why I didn't want to say anything. _Divination_." She snorts in derision.

One long digit lightly touches her chin, and then her face is being directed to look at Draco once again. His hand drops away, but she's held by the strength in his gaze. He's closer than before, leaned toward her and neck craned in her direction.

"Divination," he says carefully, "I'll have you know, is one of the oldest, most respected branches of magic. And Trelawney," he adds with more volume to stop her attempt to interrupt, "while a bit frivolous day to day, has been known to get things right from time to time. Your boy Potter can attest to that."

"I... I suppose," she says weakly, captive in his gaze as his grey eyes dart between hers.

"So you've discounted the possibility then? Because you don't believe in Divination, Granger? Or because you can't imagine it being true?"

"Both, maybe," she answers, confused. "I'm sure it's nothing you would want to entertain."

She looks away then, finally breaking the metaphorical spell he has her under. She can't tell if he's being cruel, if he's setting her up for a fall, but her fast-beating heart and blushed cheeks are likely giving away that she's not unaffected by him.

She would swear his voice is closer still when he asks, low, "And you know me so well, then? To know what I might entertain?"

"I know I'm a Mudblood," she says without thinking, and squeezes her eyes closed in regret. A whispered, "Sorry," follows suit, but she is sure he will leave regardless of her apology.

He doesn't, but she hears him suck in a breath meant to fortify, meant to calm. "And I'm a Death Eater," he says next. "But you forgave me for that. And maybe… you think you knew who I was as a Death Eater, but not entirely who I am now."

"And who you are now is different?" Hermione chances a look back and finds him closer still, nose to nose, and her exhale shudders through her throat.

"I'm different," he assures and presses his lips to hers.

When he pulls away, she doesn't move for quite some time. Finally blinking her eyes open, she's faced with a contemplative Draco staring back. The silence stretches on, and when he gets up to leave, she doesn't follow. Hermione is left alone with her thoughts as he walks away, a beacon of red against the green of the earth.

* * *

Draco spends Sunday in solitary reflection. He is _not_ hiding, thanks very much.

What the fuck had he been thinking? He _kissed_ her. Kissed her then ran away, and he's not entirely sure which component of that is worse.

Regardless of how she feels about the concept, there is a part of Granger that is entertaining what Trelawney told her. Fated. Soulmates? He's not entirely sure he believes it either, to be honest, but more because it seems implausible than due to any basic distrust of the magic.

She said it was cast wrong, that she'd basically been hexed. Maybe the error is in the meaning itself. Maybe they are not tied together at all. Or tied in animosity.

But that doesn't feel right, either. Not anymore. Any feelings of animosity for her are long gone, dried up and dead on the floor of his own parlour, if not before that particularly traumatic day.

The only other option, of course, the possibility to entertain, is that it's _true_. The spell is accurate, and Trelawney identified it properly, and Hermione Granger is Draco's destiny.

Even thinking it seems ludicrous. And isn't that what Granger had thought of the whole affair? Ridiculous. _Illogical._ And she is the smartest witch Hogwarts has seen in a generation, so who is he to argue? Who is Draco Malfoy, fallen Death Eater, to deny what she has concluded?

Finally pulling himself away from the mire of his own self-pitying thoughts, he makes his way to dinner just as the meal is near its end. The Hall is virtually empty, only a couple of lower year 'Puffs at the far end of their table and a solitary Ravenclaw absorbed in a book. Draco takes a seat on a Slytherin bench as far from any other students as possible. The plates before him refresh, and he has a private banquet all his own.

Footsteps barely register as the little Hufflepuffs take their leave. The Ravenclaw must head out next, because on his subsequent glance around, he is alone in the grand room. It's peaceful, the night sky charmed above his head, and no eyes on him. He takes a bite of the peach cobbler that caught his eye, mind going blissfully blank for a while.

The bench jars beneath him, his next bite falling from his fork. Looking over, he could not be less surprised at the pile of hair beside him; dark eyes, a bit narrowed, staring out from the curly abyss.

"You can't just go around kissing people and then running away."

He puts the fork down and adopts an unaffected expression. With a cool lift of his brow, he counters, "You didn't try very hard to stop me."

With a huff, she shakes her head to show her annoyance. "I was a bit caught off guard, to be fair."

"Yes, well, _I_ was a bit caught off guard that you've been walking around thinking I'm your bleeding soulmate." He pauses, considering, then asks with a bit of renewed heat, "Is that why you suddenly decided to be so magnanimous? Some obligation in case you find yourself stuck with me in the long term?"

"Of course not," she hisses, voice dropping. "And would you keep your voice down?"

"Unbelievable." Draco pushes back hard from the table, shifting the entire bench and nearly setting Granger off her balance. "You tracked me down, and now you're _what_? Afraid someone might catch wind that we are associated? Don't fucking trouble yourself, Granger. True or not, I'll just make the choice for you."

With that, he strides away, fuming and oddly disappointed. It's not like he exactly believed it, but he had started to enjoy her company. All or nothing Gryffindor that she is, he's fairly certain she will give him a wide berth from here out.

"Wait!"

He doesn't. It's a familiar scenario.

"Draco, _stop!_

If anything, he picks up his pace, hitting the corridor and making for the stairs. What he wouldn't give for a distraction, but curfew is nearly upon them, and most every student will be in their dorms.

"Draco! Would you stop?!"

He absolutely will _not_. He reaches the stairs and feels them shift, relieved. Unfortunately, that relief is short-lived when the insane witch breaks into a run and jumps over the gap as it forms. Draco finds himself with his arms full of Granger as she barrels into him and nearly takes them both down.

"What is wrong with you?!" He's panting and so is she, his arms still half supporting her. "Do you have a death wish? Stupid bloody witch…"

She looks up, still breathing heavily and not stepping away. "It's not stupidity to take risks." She pauses, then goads in a rather pointed manner, "Or are you regretting what happened by the lake? Was it just an accident when you kissed me?"

He is flummoxed by the challenge in her voice, his eyes going a bit wider as he stares at her. He stares while she tips up onto her toes, stares as her gaze searches his. He stares until her mouth is pushed tight against his, decisive. She's much more bold than the cautious press of lips he gave her.

Slamming his eyelids down, he kisses her in turn with enough force that she takes a step back. He follows, easing her until she is against the railing. His lips part and so do hers, and his tongue flicks out. She tastes him in turn, and then his hands are in her hair, gripping so the curls twist around his fingers, and her hands are splayed against his back, holding his chest flush against hers.

There is a jolt as the stairs move back into place, and they are left panting once again, but for a much more pleasant reason than her near fall into the bowels of the castle.

Her eyes open slowly, then wide as they can go. Reaching a hand, she plays with the fringe at his brow, mesmerized. Draco does have awfully fine hair, he's been told. Quite fetching. He grins, ready to tease her for her being so caught up in his appearance, when she interrupts his line of thought.

"You're back," she says, her fingertips running down the side of his face to his jaw. "You're not red anymore." Dropping her hand, she looks back to his eyes.

"What do you think that means?"

"I guess, if Trelawney is to be believed, that it means I've made my choice."

Draco understands immediately and straightens his posture a bit, pulling his arms away to give her space. With a smile he hopes is charming, but that might be a bit resigned, he says, "Then I suppose that means, either I will walk you to class in the morning, or that kiss was _really_ disappointing for you."

Her answering smile is a little shy, her eyes blinking closed as she laughs lightly. Granger tilts her head and asks, "You'd walk me to class?"

"Of course," he says, smile daring to grow a little wider, a bit more confident. "I'll even come up to your tower, wait at the Gryffindor portrait. Carry your books all the way down. It's a proper gentlemanly way to do this."

"So you…You want to see where this goes?"

"Who am I to judge the fates, Granger? If a kiss that good broke a spell, there must be something to this, right?" He winks. "I don't know about you, but I thought that was fairly earth shattering."

Granger grins back and takes his hand, leading him off the stairs just in time for them to break away and move once more. "Well, I guess you should walk me to my dorm then. So you know where it is for tomorrow."

Draco offers his elbow and she slips her arm into the crook. He smiles down at her, finding it easy to get a bit lost in those dark eyes. "Gladly. Is it far from Gryffindor then?"

"Oh no, it's right next to the portrait."

"Then I know the way, Granger, but I'll still walk you."

She eyes him curiously. "You know where the Gryffindor commons are? Did you… have you dated another lion?"

Something in her tone is a little sad, a little jealous. Draco finds that to be interesting, and, while he's rather chuffed to have her possessive over him already, he also wants to put her at ease. If they really are fated, starting with some honestly is probably the way to go.

"No, no, nothing like that. I'll tell you, in the interest of building trust, you understand." He sighs, looking around to be sure they are alone, and then leaning closer to speak more softly. "In third year, I was sure Potter was doing something illegal. Harbouring Black is what I thought. So I brewed up some Polyjuice and snuck in. Nothing really came of it, honestly. Followed him in, but just ended up watching Weasel beat him at chess." He shrugs. "It was stupid and pointless. Of course he wasn't hiding a grown person in the Tower. Ridiculous… But I was young and it just seemed-"

Draco breaks off, shaking his head at his younger self. He chances a look down at Hermione to find her chewing her lip in that way she has. He hopes he hasn't fucked this up already.

"Granger? Don't be angry. You know who I was then. What I believed... Don't tell me something like this will put an end before we even start."

Her head snaps his way, train of thought broken, and then a wide grin splits her face. She lunges, and he has to catch her once again. With no railing to help catch him, no stair to brace his foot against, he nearly tumbles to the ground. Granger is wrapped around him like an enormous Tentacula, her mouth bruising against his.

When they part, he pants out an amused, "So I didn't mess up, then? I'm forgiven for my sneaky Slytherin ways?"

Her grin is radiant and she plants one last peck on his lips. "I was just thinking how very well suited we might be after all, if I still had any doubts. Meet me before breakfast, and I'll tell you about my first attempt at Polyjuice. You won't believe it."

She breaks away and turns to the door to her left, a red filigree 'G' adorning the wood. "See you in the morning, Draco."

He stands for some time, staring after her, grinning like a fool.

* * *

Hermione tries very hard not to tell Draco about the cat portion of her polyjuice incident, but damned if he's not too insightful for her own good. He asks just the right questions, and, not being one to lie, she eventually gives up the entire sordid affair, every detail from the tip of her tail to the top of her pointy ears.

He seems charmed by the whole thing, and holds her hand under the table in the Great Hall, smiling at her like a niffler at gold.

He walks her every day for the week. They weather the expected explosion from Ron and the condescending concern from Harry and the vitriol of a few of the louder snakes, but none of it diminishes the draw she feels toward him, the way her heart rate spikes when he looks at her with his boyish smile.

They finish a perfect batch of Felix, but Draco tells her he believes he has inherent luck without it.

On Saturday, they visit Hogsmeade, taking bites from each other's dinners and strolling lazily through the streets. He walks her to her dorm as he has every night, but this time, she doesn't let him leave. They wake Sunday morning lying face to face, his arm slung over her waist and his blonde fringe tickling her nose.

Hermione mentally adds Sybill Trewlaney to her Christmas card list, though it pains her to do so.

Fuck, she hates being wrong.

Draco nuzzles closer, sliding the tip of his nose against the bridge of hers, sighing in contentment, and she accepts that this one time, it was worth it.

* * *

She doesn't ask anymore, how he takes his tea.

Handing the cup and saucer his way, Severus takes the bit of mismatched porcelain and nods his thanks. Very few people are aware of the odd companionship of a former Death Eater and the controversial Divination professor. Both are rather private and full of secrets, after all. He, inundated with decades worth of knowledge surrounding Dark dealings and Light machinations, and she with the answers to the universe, hidden beneath technicolor tea cosies, and ludicrously large glasses she doesn't actually need to see.

"So," he says with no preamble, "the Granger girl...Had a hand in that nonsense I suppose?"

Sybill shakes her head before dumping a disgusting amount of sugar into her own serving of English Breakfast. "Hardly. Ron Weasley was the particular conduit for that bit of fate. Purely by accident of course, but accidents are the most reliable messengers of the gods, wouldn't you say?"

Taking a long, indulgent sip, the usually taciturn professor offers a rare grin. "Yet you are the one who delivered the news to her directly. How, I often wonder, do you guard against self fulfilling prophecies? Surely you can see how problematic that would be if you do not wish to claim credit for truth amongst the theater."

"Exactly that," she answers. "See enough death in the tea leaves, and no one believes your mundanities anyway. Especially the Hermione Grangers of the world. More likely, that girl would have missed her moment simply to prove me wrong."

"A tragedy for Mister Malfoy to be sure," he says, sarcastic and venomous.

His colleague levels him with a look. "Do not pretend, Severus, you do not wish him every happiness."

With a sigh, he allows, "Perhaps. Unfortunate that it comes part and parcel with Potter and a hurricane of hair."

And Sybill laughs because she sees the humour in his anger and his spite, and he smiles back at her because he sees the brilliance beneath her eccentricities.

Twenty years ago, she told him they would be the best of friends, and he wasted five denying it. He's learned many lessons since then, not the least of which being that Sybill Trelawney is not half as dotty as she behaves and is twice as sharp as any witch he knows.

Seven years ago she told him a muggleborn would be the next Lady Malfoy, and Severus had only raised his brow as he sipped his perfectly prepared tea.


End file.
